Fix You
by E. H. Redlum
Summary: Pre-Finch's abduction scenario (originally this was written as post-abduction, but due to some plot twists in the sequel I changed some time periods around. No effect on the plot.)- When Finch gets a number related more deeply to his personal life than he would like, he has to break down personal walls in order to aid Mr. Reese in saving their unique victim. Finch/Grace Reese/?
1. Chapter 1

Harold Finch let a great shuddering sigh escape his lips as his glassy stare locked on his computer screen. Everything had finally begun to feel normal again. Well, until five minutes ago. Now he could feel his life starting to slide once more toward agonizing disarray. Or, at least more agonizing disarray than was the norm.

Squeezing out of Root's grasp had taken over two weeks, although without John it likely would have taken months. She hadn't beaten him for information until the end, to his surprise, but the ordeal had left him mentally exhausted. Returning to the library to see the list of chances he had missed throughout the two weeks made things even more difficult. Despite John's somewhat fervent argument against it, he had gone directly back to picking up numbers and sending John off on scouting missions. He needed the tension and sense of urgency their missions brought. It was, he felt, his only real purpose to go on living.

A sharp scrape of metal followed by the scuff of a shoe forced Harold to break from his trance, quickly closing the photo displayed on one of his monitors.

"Good morning, John," he said without turning his head.

"Morning, Finch. Any killers to catch? Babies to snatch?" John said with an even tone, sarcasm dancing behind his words.

"Not quite," Harold murmured quietly, taking a sip of his tea nervously. He rose from his chair, stifling a groan when his back protested the movement.

"Well?" John cocked an eyebrow, urging him to continue.

Finch made his way absentmindedly to the wall where all of his missed chances hung, looking at it grimly. He couldn't afford another picture on that wall.

"Finch, anybody home?" John sounded a bit more agitated as he spoke, clearly growing antsy as he awaited the answer to his question.

Patience wasn't always John's strong suit, unless he was going about his business of stalking. Impatience was the exact reason John had found and rescued him so soon, though, so he couldn't fault him for it. There were many things he couldn't really fault John for, good or bad. Although when Harold had recruited Reese he expected him to be nothing more than a coworker, he had grown into something closer to a friend.

There were certainly some rough patches in the friendship, if it could be considered that. He knew nearly everything about John, but kept his own life a secret. Through some distinctly annoying prying John had gained some slivers of knowledge, but he only had pieces of the whole. Harold had intended to keep it that way, friend or not, but now he was afraid. Afraid that things might change. Afraid for every sacrifice he had made.

While John had been pestering him, Harold had made his way to a bookshelf and pulled _Jane Eyre _out of a neatly organized cluster of novels. He leafed through it until his fingers found a photograph, and he allowed his eyes to slide shut for a fraction of a second before pulling it from the pages. Grinding his teeth together in agitation, he folded it in half so only one face was showing in the picture. That was a strange thought, a face. It was rare that he called anyone a face before a number.

Limping with a sort of pride he always managed to limp with, he ignored John's baffled look and made his way to the wall where he pinned up the photos of all their new numbers. Sticking the old photo to the wall he grimly turned away and returned to his chair, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine as he flopped down without an ounce of gentleness.

"Is this the silent treatment?" Reese began as he passed Harold's chair to go view the photo, "I don't remember pissing you-" he suddenly broke off when he was close enough to see the picture.

Reese turned to face him, but Harold wished he wouldn't. He didn't want to make eye contact with him, not until he absolutely had to.

"Finch," Reese began, "Harold, look at me."

"I can see you just fine, Mr. Reese," Harold shot his spite through his words as he finally made his blazing eyes meet John's.

"I'm not going to let anything happen, Harold," John said with all the confidence he could muster. Harold recognized it as the tone he used to soothe victims, and he didn't appreciate it.

"Unless you plan on reassuring me in that tone with every number we receive henceforth, please drop it. This is no different from any other number. We'll treat it as such, with some precautions."

"It is different," John moved closer as he spoke, "you can't hide this one from me. You have to trust me enough to help me. If you still love her-"

"Don't!" Harold was on his feet, "Don't you question if I love her! You already know who she is to me, you already uncovered the one thing I wanted to bury forever," his tone was bitter, "and it could well be because of you that this number came up. You do your job, Mr. Reese, and leave me to mine."

With that, he dropped the finger he had pointed accusingly and stiffly settled back into his chair, gripping the handles like a vice and staring straight forward. John left the room without saying a word; Harold hadn't expected him to. Some part of him, buried deep inside, regretted snapping at John. It wasn't enough to kill his anger, though. Reese had gone to see Grace. Whatever danger she was in could be related to John, and if anything happened to her no amount of dashing heroics could bring Harold to easy forgiveness.

A thought hit him then. What if it wasn't John at all? What if Root had traced him right back to Grace? What if it was no one's fault but his own?


	2. Chapter 2

"Finch, you there?" John Reese clicked his earpiece as he slid his thumb across the slick black phone in his palm.

"I'm here, Mr. Reese. Are you in position?"

"Yes," John confirmed in his low raspy voice, "nothing out of the ordinary yet."

John deposited the phone in his suit pocket and placed his hand around the lens of a camera instead. Pressing one eye close to the viewfinder while squeezing the other shut, he slowly rotated his hand until a window pane came into focus. Behind the glass a red haired woman was absorbed in her work. The shutter clicked as he snapped photos, watching her let dainty hands dance across an easel. She sat by the window for the natural lighting, he assumed, but it also had a good view of the world outside. Or, in his case, the world inside.

Although cool and collected as he went about his job, John was burying some twinges of nervousness. There was always life at stake when handling these missions, but rarely was it a life as significant as Grace's. When he had met her, against what he knew was Harold's will, she had struck him as someone full of life and pleasant to be around. The fact she had been engaged to Finch made him rethink that impression for a fraction of a second, but he reminded himself he didn't really know what made Harold tick. Or Grace, for that matter.

What he did know was that if anything happened to Grace, Harold would kill him. Even if Harold didn't kill him, he would feel miserable enough to kill himself. He knew what it was like to have someone, someone who meant more than life itself, ripped away. There was no way he could put his friend through that.

_Friend._

He smirked a bit. Finch was the closest thing he had to a friend, but that didn't exactly make them pals. They trusted each other, relied on each other, but never confided in each other. Every time John even hinted at something related to Harold's past he was shut down. When he had slipped and unintentionally questioned his feelings for Grace earlier that morning, part of Harold he had never seen had been revealed. Though smaller in demeanor and physically challenged, it was becoming clear Harold's intensity was equal to his own. Good thing the little guy didn't like guns.

The thud of a car door being swung shut broke John's pondering, immediately forcing him to lock his forceful gaze on a gray van situated in front of Grace's home. Instinctively placing his hand over the pistol concealed by his charcoal suit jacket, he hid the camera in some bushes and quickly made his way to the van.

Staying as discreet as possible, he watched as a man wearing a beige uniform of some sort made his way to Grace's front door. Ducking behind the man's van and out of sight, he let his hand slide off of his gun. On the driver's door there was a logo for "The Boroughs" magazine, the publication Grace worked for. Breathing a sigh of relief, he peeked around the van in time to see Grace allow the man into her house.

Just to be safe, he decided to gain a better vantage point. He stayed low and made his way underneath the window he had originally been watching Grace through. Risking a glance inside, he could see Grace's phone sitting on a desktop not far from her easel and paints. Eagerly whipping the phone earlier stored away out of his pocket, he tapped a few buttons and performed a force-sync with her phone. As she and the man came within earshot of the device, John peered in from the right of the window and listened.

"Fabulous as I've heard," the man said with some enthusiasm in his voice as Grace pointed to a piece of artwork.

"You're too kind," she smiled at the man, "I'm just doing my job."

"You do it considerably better than most of us could," the man said with a bit of a chuckle.

He was a scrappy looking fellow with five-o-clock shadow haunting his face. His jet black hair was slicked back neatly, and although he wasn't much taller than Grace his piercing blue eyes and strong frame gave him an air of authority. Maybe superiority.

_Not your average magazine correspondent._

"Why didn't Frank come to pick up the painting? I was beginning to think he was a permanent part of my artistic career." She was neatly wrapping a protective covering around her canvas as she spoke.

_This man wasn't a regular._

John's hand returned to his pistol. He wasn't going to take any chances, alarm bells were already going off in his head.

"We were afraid Frank might have a crush on you, it's an intervention," the man said lightly with a grin, "is that your husband?" He pointed to a picture of Harold and Grace, located on the same desktop as her phone.

"No," she said a bit sadly, "he was my fiancé."

John knew Harold was listening to the conversation over his phone. Knew he was hearing Grace's voice. He wondered how the recluse felt, if one voice could cause enough emotion to break the concentration of his calculating mind.

"Was?" the dark haired man questioned.

"Yes," she said hesitantly, "he's…gone, now. There was an accident."

"I don't believe that for a second," the short fellow said absentmindedly, taking two long strides toward Grace and suddenly thrusting his hand inside his beige jacket.

John had smashed the window with his right elbow and drawn his gun with his left hand in one fluid motion, not giving the mystery man time to draw his concealed weapon. A graceful swing over the window sill placed John inside the house, his gun never breaking its focus on the unsuspecting brawny man.

The man's eyes bulged as his hands flew up in the air instinctively, visibly shaken by John's sudden appearance.

"Finish," John said in a threatening tone.

"Wh-what?" the man choked.

"Finish what you were going to say to this woman," he said, sliding his finger closer to the trigger.

"I was…" the man struggled to remember the conversation they were having, "I was going to say that the people we love never really leave."

"Bullshit."

John sprung at the man, knocking him to the ground with a solid right hook to the face. Ignoring the man's groans, he pinned him down with a knee and thrust his hand into the uniform's jacket pocket to reveal the gun inside. He closed his hand around a small metallic object and pulled it out with a dumbfounded look. A ballpoint pen.

He quickly climbed off of the man and once again cocked his gun at him.

"Run," he rasped simply.

The man did as asked, scurrying to his feet and hustling from the room. Seconds later John heard the van start up. A chivalrous gentleman if there ever was one, leaving a woman alone with a mysterious gunman. Then again, he had almost killed the guy.

"Finch?" John pressed a finger to his earpiece as he spoke.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold said a bit too eagerly, as if he had been hanging from the edge of his seat to know what had happened.

"I think we're going to have to rethink our usual strategy. I may have blown our cover," John said as he slowly turned to the woman pressed in a corner.

Her mouth was agape and tears were running down her cheeks, but there was defiance in her eyes. It was as if she refused to succumb to the fear he knew was eating away at her insides.

"You," she whispered, "you've been here before."

"Yes," John nodded slightly as he put away his weapon, "I have."

"Who the_ hell_ are you?" she asked, her voice gaining some volume.

"A mutual friend," John wiped blood off his knuckles as he spoke, looking around the room.

"Your art is beautiful," he continued as he turned his back to her.

No sooner had he looked away then he felt an enormous pressure making contact with his back. The sound of shattering glass broke the silence in the room, and he could feel shards tear into him as he doubled over. Pausing a moment to catch his breath, he put his hands on his knees and watched water spilling across the floor mix with blood. A few yellow petals drifted along the small stream, and he pieced together what had occurred in the past seconds.

He calmly turned to face his assailant, who was looking at down at her own hands in astonishment. Fragments of the flower vase she had just broken against his back had left her palms bloody and surely in great pain, but she only looked confused. Placing his hands underneath hers, he studied her palms with some concern.

"What do you want with me?" she said through small sobs, drawing her hands close to her body with true fear in her voice and gaze now.

"To protect you," he said honestly, looking at her intensely. Despite the pain in his back he was impressed with her bravery. She was a fighter, albeit a small one.

"From who?" she said angrily, "I live alone here, I have no family, I barely talk to anyone. I focus on my art, and I'm content. I don't need protecting."

"Let's just say there was an anonymous threat on your life," John said carefully, "and my colleague and I can protect you."

"All I want," she hissed, "is to be left alone."

_Maybe there was some Finch in her after all._

"I'm sorry, Grace," John said a bit reluctantly, placing his hand on his weapon, "but you don't exactly have that option anymore."


	3. Chapter 3

Finch tapped his fingers impatiently as he stared at his computer screen. He had put the cameras in the Hilton room as soon as Mr. Reese notified him Grace would need a safe house. There had been plenty of time to install the hardware and hobble his way back to the library miserably before they got there. Now he was stuck in his familiar chair watching John interact with Grace on his monitor. It frustrated him to be so painfully close to her but stuck so far away.

"I won't be staying here with you, for obvious reasons," John was explaining to her, "but I would encourage you to stay put. I won't be far, and if you do get the urge to leave, well, I'm probably just going to bring you back," he tilted his head with a small shrug.

"Right," she said, looking at her recently bandaged hands, "because kidnapping me and hiding me away is the best way to protect me from this nonexistent threat."

"I assure you, it exists," John said, "but we've been over this a few times now."

Reese had been doing his best to attempt to convince Grace there was a real danger, but Harold couldn't blame her for refusing to believe him. She probably assumed he was a lunatic despite his best efforts to display his sanity. As soon as they had entered the not-so-humble hotel room, he had forced her to sit on the bed while he gingerly fixed up her hands. It was then Harold felt another sliver of regret for snapping at Reese the way he had. Clearly John was vested in protecting the woman from the unknown threat, and he was acting considerably less emotionally detached than usual around Grace. Harold assumed it was her connection to him that was making John dance around so carefully, and caringly.

He watched John reach for his phone and simultaneously heard his own begin to beep. Picking it up felt a bit surreal; it was strange to be watching and speaking to Reese at the same time.

"Finch?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"All the equipment working properly?"

"Yes," Finch answered, assuming Reese was referring to the cameras in the room, "are you going to tell her we're watching?"

"No," John answered, "I don't think so. I'll see you at our meeting place later."

Finch watched him hang up the phone, Grace studying him curiously.

"How's your imaginary friend doing?" she said with a sigh, appearing to almost be growing used to her situation.

"Oh he's fine, he gets cranky without his afternoon nap though," Reese smirked.

"Is he like you? Some sort of psychopath, or government spy, or whatever you are?"

"He's…much smarter than I am," John said after some thought, "and shorter."

"Oh, well, at least I'll recognize him now," Grace said, drowning her words in sarcasm.

John laughed a bit, a laugh more real than most Mr. Reese let out, and said, "You just might. I'll be back later on, probably around nine tonight. Need anything while I'm out?"

"Something that will just knock me out would be nice. Maybe some morphine. If you could throw in an anti-anxiety pill that would be fine as well."

"Tranquilizers, you got it," John nodded to her a little then began to exit the room.

"John!" she called before he left.

"Yes?" he answered.

"Could you bring back some tea?" she said, this time with honesty behind her voice.

Harold knit his brow and ran a hand over his hair as he watched John reenter the area, and he looked at his own cup of tea sitting by the computer.

"Any preferences as to kind?" he asked her, but Harold suspected he knew the answer.

"There's a place not far from where I live, it sells Sencha Green Tea," she said, hope skirting between her teeth.

"Of course," John paused, then said, "You look like you like one sugar," before exiting the room.

Harold watched the surprised expression hang on her face after John left, and nearly called to chide him for the comment, but refrained. Grace's posture relaxed a few moments later, and she pressed her face to her bandaged hands. Running one of them shakily through her hair, tears began to slip out of her eyes. She scooted farther onto the bed as they fell more frequently, grabbing a pillow and flopping onto her side. Balling it up and pressing it close to her chest, she hugged it as if it would run away. Her body rocked back and forth with sobs; her face scrunched up as she released her painful emotions.

It felt, Harold thought, as if some was digging into his chest with their fingers and ripping his heart out. He was clutching the edges of his computer screen without even noticing, fighting back the urge to sob for her. All he wanted was to go to her and hold her. She wouldn't have to cling to a hotel pillow, she could have him, he wouldn't let go if he got the chance. Watching helplessly, his arms shook as he lowered his head to the desk in front of him, putting his hands on top of his head. Leaving her once was agonizing, and now here she was just out of his grasp when she needed him most.

"I love you," he whispered into the desk, "I love you so much."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I'll be brief here, but I want to thank everyone who has taken an interest in this story! I was never expecting positive feedback so quickly, but I truly appreciate it! I'm going to focus most of my attention on this fic for a while, I think I can really go in depth and run with it. (And to those of you who were curious, I plan without a doubt to incorporate our lovely Detective Carter!)**

**Please continue to enjoy **_**and give feedback**_**! – Redlum.**

"Hello Harold," John said as he entered the room directly across the hall from Grace's, "you look absolutely terrible."

He did look awful. Even at a distance John could see the bags under Finch's eyes. The rigidity with which he sat a small wooden desk could have been because his back was paining him more than usual, but the surprisingly disheveled state of his outfit seemed to indicate it was more from stress.

"I apologize for not looking up to your standards after what has proven to be a very trying day, Mr. Reese," Harold quipped as he shot him a glance.

"Don't sweat it. I brought you a present," Reese approached the desk, handing Finch a green tea.

"Isn't this for Grace?" he questioned.

"I got her another," he jerked his thumb toward an identical steaming tea sitting on a countertop near the doorway.

"She hates it," Harold murmured quietly as he monitored her room with his laptop.

"What?" John questioned, confused.

"I would always try to get her to drink it with me, but she said it disgusted her. She liked coffee."

Harold put his statement simply, yet sadly. John struggled to come up with a response, but decided it may be best to say nothing at all. It was already painfully clear how much the pair cared for each other, but even so he sensed Finch may have been embarrassed by the comment he made. Opening up was rare for the private man, and Reese felt some strange appreciation for the guts behind that small declaration.

"Anything interesting going on across the hall?" John asked as he took a seat on the edge of the king sized bed in the room, toying with the red comforter absentmindedly.

"No," Finch said with a yawn, "she's in the shower."

John cocked an eyebrow and hid a smile, "you put cameras in the-"

"No!" Finch twisted his whole upper body just to glare at him, "I saw her go in with towels before. I am logically assuming she is now in the shower."

Reese held his hands up defensively, giving Harold an innocent look that was met with something resembling an eye roll. John played with his suit cuffs and let his mind wander as his partner stared at an empty room. They still had absolutely no clue what the threat to Grace may be. Well, perhaps they had a clue; there was just no evidence to support any theories. Although he couldn't be sure what Harold thought, John had his doubts that it was Root. If she was planning on harming, or kidnapping, Grace she would have kept it under wraps and acted immediately after Harold's escape. When Root struck again, John assumed it would be with months of preparation. And no mistakes.

There was the possibility that it was somehow his fault, which seemed to be what Finch believed, but he was always careful to cover his tracks. His brief visit with Grace shouldn't have left an obvious footprint, but then he never really knew who was hunting him.

"What the…" Harold was mumbling to himself, toying with his laptop in frustration.

"John!" he exclaimed suddenly, on his feet in an instant, but John was up first.

He had seen the gray fuzz cut across the screen the same moment Harold shouted his name. Something was interrupting their connection with the camera, and he wasn't going to take any chances.

"Stay here," he called to Harold as he flung the door to their room aside without a second thought.

Across the hallway in one long stride, John sent a foot flying into Grace's door. The metal locks snapped with a distinct clinking noise, dulled by the sound of shattering wood. John was swinging around the entrance without so much as a pause, ready to blast the gun held steady in his right hand. His fiery eyes locked onto the masked man breaking down the bathroom door, and within a fraction of a second a bullet had been loosed into the kneecap of the intruder. Scanning the room quickly, John searched behind furniture and under the bed before returning to the bathroom door swinging off its hinges, convinced the assailant was alone.

"Grace?" he said quietly from the doorway after silencing the man moaning on the floor with a solid kick to the face.

"John?" she questioned in a cautious voice, "is that you?"

"Yes," he answered, "can I come in?"

"Go ahead," she said in a shaky voice.

He moved into the small room and found Grace, once again, pressed into a corner. She had drawn a towel around her dripping body and was nervously attempting to smooth back her soggy hair. The woman must have had a heart attack in the shower; he was surprised she was on her feet.

"Was that a gunshot?" she asked, pointedly staring at John's gun.

"Yes," he gestured casually outside the doorway, "the threat showed up."

"My god," she put a trembling hand to her mouth as she poked her head around the corner of the door, "did you kill him?"

"No, I shot him in the leg," John stated plainly, bending down to rip the black mask off his face, "do you recognize this man?"

Grace stared at the bloody faced brown haired man with no recognition in her eyes, only fear.

"No, no I don't," she shook her head vigorously, "what's going on John? How did he get here, and why?"

John looked with pity upon the quivering woman who now had tears running down her cheeks.

"Why I don't know," John said truthfully, "but I think he somehow scaled the balcony and broke in there." He continued searching the man, finding only a little electronic device. Finch would know what it was.

"What if there had been more like him? Do you have backup? Is that what your little bird is?"

John let out a snorting laugh at the innocent question, but answered anyway so he didn't seem entirely insensitive.

"I can handle myself well enough alone, trust me. And my _bird_, well, he has some problems with…human interaction."

Grace didn't seem to like the answer but Reese didn't have time for elaborate explanations.

"Get some clothes on as fast as you can and meet me in the hallway, you can come to my room for a few minutes – then we're going to move somewhere safer."

She nodded and ran to grab clothes as John exited the room, entering the hallway on high alert. He was pacing back and forth there when a thought hit him.

_Finch._

Dashing back into the room they had been using for surveillance on Grace, he nearly smashed into Harold.

"John, what –"

"Hide! Get in the closet," John shoved him toward a little space in the room's entrance hallway, guarded by a wooden slotted door, "stay there and shut up," he finished abruptly. He slammed the door shut behind Finch, who was letting out a frustrated grunt, and returned to the main hallway.

Grace was already skirting out of her room, whipping her head around like a frightened meerkat.

"Come on," John said to her, slanting his head in the direction of his door.

He placed a hand protectively on her arm as she passed him and entered the room. What would she say if she knew her fiancé was stashed away in his closet, listening in? If the situation wasn't so grim it may have been humorous.

John was flying around the room, gathering Harold's electronic equipment and the small bag he had brought with him. Meanwhile, Grace was standing at the desk where Finch had previously been sitting.

"What's the laptop fuzz about?" she inquired as she stared at the screen, then her eyes fell on the tea, "Oh! Is this for-"

An irregular bang and a gunshot sounded in the room simultaneously, sending John to the doorway in a flash. Cursing himself, he realized he had been stupid enough to leave the front door open with Grace in plain sight.

_Grace._

Looking behind him briefly as he moved, he could see her lying irregularly on the ground with the green tea spilled across her body. He couldn't tell how badly she was hurt, but he didn't plan on sparing the shooter. Springing into the gunman's line of sight, he was surprised to see the situation unfolding.

A closet door was hanging ajar with a clear bullet hole in it, and Harold was taking punches in the face from another masked man. John sent a round into the man's side, then chest, before racing back to check on Grace.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he got there. Despite the nasty looking bloodstains forming on the carpet and her unconscious state, the wound was in her upper leg and most likely not life threatening. Scooping her into his arms without a second thought, he sensed Harold's presence over his shoulder.

"Is she alright?" he asked urgently.

John stood up, cradling her in his arms.

"We have to go now, Harold," John said as he quickly moved toward the door with the intention of making it to a car without another incident.

He moved too swiftly for Finch to keep up, even though he knew he shouldn't. He should have given him a straight answer when he asked about the woman he loved, as well. Maybe, when things were said and done, he would apologize in some form for his behavior. After all, Grace would be dead if Harold hadn't thrown off the assailant's aim with the closet door. John just couldn't accept it was his own fault the assassin had been able to step in the room and take a shot.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm driving," Reese informed Finch as he was gently placing Grace in the backseat of a slick black car.

Harold hadn't really been listening. He was so consumed with worry for the injured woman that he wasn't sensing much of anything. He really couldn't have cared less if John left him behind and drove away, leaving him to hobble home, if it meant getting Grace to safety faster.

"Climb back here with her, Harold. Harold, are you listening?" John questioned authoritatively.

"Yes, sorry," Harold said quickly, climbing into the back seat so that Grace's head was resting on his lap.

"Keep pressure on the wound," John said, tossing him a first aid kit located under the car's driver's seat.

Digging through until he found some thick gauze pads, Harold discarded the rest of the kit on the floor. He cautiously used his left hand to press the white wads firmly against the bullet hole, wincing at the pain it must be causing her.

_Her._

She was right in his lap.

He looked down at her perfect face as John sent the car blasting into drive and whipping through a parking garage. The motion jostled her head a little, and she let out a groan. Although her eyes stayed closed and her face was contorted in pain, her right hand closed around the front of his shirt. As her other hand groped for something, he used his own right hand to softly scoop her head off his lap and press it into his chest. Her hand found his side and her fingers dug in, causing him to squeeze her small torso tighter to him. Resisting the urge to bury his face in her hair, he twitched his bloody nose to resituate the broken glasses perched on them.

"Where are we going, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked, still in a slightly dazed state.

"To the library," he said plainly.

"We can't," Finch answered strongly, "she needs a hospital."

"I can fix her myself. We take her to a hospital and someone will kill her."

Mr. Reese didn't leave room for an argument, and Harold was too tired to find some. He ran his quaking hand along Grace's back as she wriggled uncomfortably. John had left the door to their room open; he hadn't moved Grace quickly enough. The situation they were in, for all intents and purposes, was largely John's fault. If Harold hadn't seen the intruder through the slits in the closet door – well, he didn't want to think about that. All that mattered to him right then was taking care of Grace; blame could come later.

Even though it took less than twenty minutes, Harold thought arriving at the library took hours. John parked the car out of sight and swung the door closest to Finch open, preparing to take Grace.

"Help me support her legs while I get her out," John commanded plainly.

An anger flickering at the bottom of Harold's stomach flared. What position was John in to order him around? Instead of complying with Reese, he threw his left arm under her legs and awkwardly clambered out of the car.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked with disbelief in his eyes.

"Taking her inside," Harold growled sharply, moving toward the back entrance they used to the library.

After a few steps his back was already screaming in protest. It felt as if knives were being ripped through his spine, and his limp didn't help things. Nevertheless he held Grace as steady as he could and rudely refusing John's help each time he offered it. This was a burden he wasn't going to let anyone else bear. He didn't trust anyone else with it.

Once they had entered the library, Harold carried her to the couch he slept on during late nights. She had bled through her gauze long ago, and he would have been lying if he said he wasn't panicking a bit. As he laid her down on the small couch, he wished she was in a hospital. She deserved to be.

"Get her pants off," John said to Harold as he pulled a black duffel bag off of a bookshelf where he had previously stored it.

"What?" Harold replied, surprised at how loud his question came out.

"We need to look at the wound – either you do it or I do," John gave him a serious look, persuading Harold to reluctantly peel off her sweatpants.

He went about it carefully, not wanting to touch her injury if possible. The amount of blood sticking to her legs made him feel sick, but he knew things could be much worse. Pulling a blanket from the top of the couch, he protectively covered her shivering body from the wound area up as Mr. Reese joined him.

John lifted Grace's injured leg gingerly, examining the other side of her thigh. Harold felt the anger spring up again, but he swallowed it this time. John was putting his hands on her for good reason, but it still made him fidget uncomfortably.

"The bullet went through clean, fortunately," John observed, lowering her leg gently, "but I need to clean the wound. You should probably leave for this, Harold."

"Leave? Why?" he said defensively, taken aback.

"I have to use this," John pulled a bottle of a clear solution out of his bag; Harold assumed it contained some combination of water and iodine. He went on to pull out some scrubbing pads and towels, then long strips of band aids, finishing his statement with, "it probably won't be pleasant for her. She could wake up."

"What's your point, Mr. Reese?" Harold said with some defiance echoing in his voice.

"_My point_ is she doesn't know you're alive," John stressed, " I thought you were hiding from her – protecting her."

"No, Mr. Reese, protecting her was _your_ job. I think I'll take my chances."

Harold hadn't bothered to hide the bitterness in his voice; he simply knelt by Grace's face and wrapped his hand around hers. Waiting for John to begin the cleaning process, he refused to look at him. He knew what he was doing was foolish and that it could spoil years of hiding, but he was past his breaking point. Everything had already gone to hell.

John didn't say anything to indicate he was beginning the cleaning process, but Harold knew by the tightening of Grace's hand. Grateful that things were going well, and that she was processing the pain in an unconscious state, he was caught off guard when she sat up with a painful howl and tried to twist away from John.

"Hold her still!" he shouted to Harold, who practically tackled her.

He hadn't anticipated such a lively response from her, but he supposed John's work must have been agonizing. Pinning her face against his shoulder, he had both of his arms wrapped around her and was doing his best to press her into the couch. She was sending her hands pounding into his back, desperately trying to escape. He was whispering words of comfort in her ear, trying to ease her pain and confusion, but he wasn't exactly sure what was coming out of his mouth. At some point he noticed that his face was really throbbing from the blows he received, and that her hands were sending shockwaves through his spine, but he was paralyzed in a whole new way. He was too afraid to move. Unable to let go.

After what seemed like an eternity, her pounding and desperate shouts faded to limp arms and barely a whimper. Harold had no idea when Reese would be finished, but he guessed Grace's energy was burning out. He held her a little more loosely, waiting until her body was completely relaxed to let go. Her eyes were closed again when he backed away, glancing at John's cleaning process before he began to pace. Thinking about how comforting and normal it would be to sit down at his computer, he almost didn't notice a tug on his hand.

Turning his torso rapidly, his mouth hung agape as he looked at Grace struggling to sit up.

"Harold?" she whispered with confusion before her small hand slipped off of his and she slumped back into unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

"Hello, detective," Reese said casually as he slid into a bar seat.

"I was beginning to worry I wouldn't hear from you again," Detective Carter sat sipping a glass of water, "I guess I didn't get that lucky."

"Sorry," he raised an eyebrow, "not yet."

"Right, well," she continued, "I would be willing to bet this has something to do with a certain hotel shooting that unfolded, under mysterious circumstances, yesterday."

"Maybe you should try your luck at the casino, detective," Reese said as he took a coin out of his pocket and spiraled it through his fingertips thoughtfully.

"I'm sure you wouldn't care to tell me what happened?" she said without much hope in her voice.

"It's somewhat irrelevant," John said, "but I may be able to enlighten you a bit if you have any information about the two men left at the scene."

"Only one was found dead at the scene," Carter corrected him, "but I anticipated you might be asking so I brought this along."

She pulled a file out of a carrying case flopped against her stool and placed it in front of Reese. He flipped it open, studying it curiously.

"Alexander Anokhin?" he questioned with a blank stare.

"He was the man found dead at the scene – wanted for all sorts of things, almost all related to the Russian mob."

"The…Russian mob," Reese said slowly before letting out a sigh and running a hand across his forehead.

"Was that not what you were expecting?" Carter asked, curiosity obviously eating away at her.

"Not quite," he said, finding it difficult to hide his frustration.

Some well-trained CIA operative, a person with no identity that Root dug up, a disgruntled magazine reader – basically anything would have made more sense to him than a Russian mob member. Why would the mob have any reason to hunt down Grace? He called the bartender and ordered a drink as he let possibilities spiral through his mind, coming up with nothing.

"Are you aware it's," Carter paused to check her watch, "12:08 pm?"

"Yes," John said, leaning his forehead against two fingers.

She raised her eyebrows at him, sighing a little.

"I see you're eager to elaborate, as usual," she shook her head with slight disgruntlement.

As the bartender slid a beer in front of him, John took a swig and thought back on his night. And morning. Everything had blended together.

"Harold?" she had asked.

He had heard her, and even though they weren't on good terms he looked to Harold with alarm. The recluse had backed out of the room quickly, retreating to his computer desk. That's where John had found him around 2 in the morning when he finished bandaging Grace and gathered the nerve to face the man.

"Is she still out?" Harold had asked without turning around as John walked into the room.

"Yes," John had answered, "she probably will be for a while."

Harold hadn't said anything else at that point, so John had slumped into an extra chair in the room. He propped an elbow on his knee and made a fist under his chin to lean on. His eyes hurt and his body was aching for no particular reason, but his mind and stomach were causing real turmoil.

"_No, Mr. Reese, protecting her was __your __job. I think I'll take my chances."_

Harold's comment was constantly swirling through his brain, replaying like a broken record. Though he would never show it, he was truly hurting. Maybe if Finch had been wrong it wouldn't have wounded him so badly.

"I'm going to have to ask you to do something for me, Mr. Reese," Harold had said after a lengthy period of silence.

"Yes?" John had answered. His one word responses were becoming the norm.

"You'll have to lie to her when she wakes up. Tell her I was a hallucination."

_Are you sure? We could protect her. She could stay here. We could fake her death, too. You could be happy, you still have a shot. _

"Alright, Finch," John had stated plainly.

At his affirmation, Harold had rose from the chair and gone to get his jacket without glancing at John.

"Where are you going?" John risked a question, genuinely curious.

"It doesn't matter, Mr. Reese," Harold paused at the doorway, "you should sleep. Stay close to her."

Those were the last words Finch said to him before a restless night and early morning. John had grabbed a blanket and returned to the room where Grace was, curling up on the floor. He was confident she was safe at the library, but nevertheless he hadn't slept much. Most of his time was spent rolling around trying to get comfortable, his mind spinning with a dizzying number of thoughts. Around five, to the best of his knowledge, he had dozed off. At seven he woke up with a fresh green tea sitting next to him. Finch had come back, but was nowhere to be found.

As John had groggily sat up, he was surprised to see Grace awake and staring at the ceiling. She slowly turned her head when she noticed him rise.

"Grace," he said, getting to his feet quickly, "how do you feel?"

"My leg hurts, and my head," she said as she sat up a little, "I got shot, didn't I?"

"Yes, but fortunately it wasn't too bad," John reassured her, "I already bandaged your leg up."

"I remember, sort of," she nodded, rubbing her tired eyes, "John, was there another man here?"

"No," he lied through his teeth, "but you were calling out to other people while I was cleaning the wound. Probably some sort of stress or pain induced hallucinations."

"Oh," she whispered as she bit her lower lip, fighting back tears, "I was hoping…I thought it was probably just my imagination, though."

John reached to the ground and picked up the green tea, offering it to her. Looking at him gratefully, she took it and began to sip with her eyes closed. Salty drops leaked from her eyes as she drank. He sat down on the edge of the couch cushions and wrapped one of his hands around hers comfortingly. He didn't want to see her cry anymore.

"I thought I saw my fiancé, John. Harold. I thought he was here, alive."

He squeezed her hand tighter, surprised she was confiding in him so readily. Then again, what choice did she have? She was alone in the world, being hunted like an animal. She needed a path, a purpose. A friend, someone to talk to. He knew the feeling.

"I lost someone, too," John was surprised at the statement he was making, "I loved her more than anything, but I wasn't in time to stop her death. I blamed myself for it. Since then I've gone on a sort of mission – helping people. I'm not going to let anything else happen to you, Grace. Harold would want you to have a friend, to be brave."

"It's hard to be brave when you're all alone," she said in a hushed tone.

"We're never alone. Someone, somewhere, is always watching," he said as he stared at a wall, his face painfully empty of emotion.

"John?" Carter interrupted his flashback as he gripped his mug tightly.

"Our mutual friend is missing again, this time of his own accord. I'm trying very hard to protect someone, but it seems I'm on my own for now," John opened up to her.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked genuinely.

John looked into her eager eyes, letting a small smile slip across his face.

"I need your help figuring out why she's in danger. Here," he pulled a small slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.

"What's this?" she unfolded it, quickly reading the letters and numbers scrawled on it.

"The address of the target. I think if you search around there you'll find some interesting things. I'm going to look farther into this mob matter, but anything at all you can uncover could be helpful."

"I'll do some digging for you," she said as she got up from her bar stool, "where's this victim now?"

"Under the protection of Fusco," he said rather grimly as he got to his feet.

"You may want to hurry back to them," she said with a cocked eyebrow, "he's liable to be the threat."

John grinned in agreement before adjusting his suit jacket and making a move to leave. Before he was too far away, he turned back to the detective.

"Be careful, Carter," he said with a nod, and then turned to exit.


	7. Chapter 7

"Entering someone's house without a warrant is quite illegal, detective," Finch said casually as he leaned back in an armchair.

Joss Carter leaped into the air, removing her gun from its holster instinctively. She had been studying a photo resting on a wooden desk in the room, so immersed she didn't even realize he was behind her.

"You? John said you went AWOL," she said as she lowered her gun.

"Last time I checked, I was free to go about my business as I pleased," he paused, "without Mr. Reese's permission."

"So," she lifted up the picture on the desk, "your business is sitting in your girlfriend's abandoned house while John tries to protect her?"

"_John_ got her shot!" he refuted quickly, glaring at her.

"Well, is she alright?"

"Yes," Harold said slowly, "to the best of my knowledge."

"And, would she be dead without John?"

He hesitated before continuing with, "I suppose so."

"Then how about you two stop arguing like a married couple and we actually find out why someone's trying to kill your girl?" Carter gave him an intimidating stare, accompanied by a slew of hand motions.

"She isn't my girl," Finch clarified, "she was my fiancé – and she thinks I died two years ago."

He rose to his feet then, clearing his throat and limping to the desk where Carter stood. Picking up the framed photograph, he swiftly removed the cardboard backing. Withdrawing the glossy moment frozen in time, he folded it up and tucked it inside his beige suit jacket. There was no sense leaving it in Grace's house for prying eyes.

"Do you have any information about who might be after her?" Harold asked, "I'm assuming that's why Mr. Reese sent you here."

"For now, only that a Russian mobster was found dead after a hotel shooting," she shrugged.

"A _Russian mobster_?" he asked in a bewildered tone.

"That's about what John said," she smirked a little, "I guess Batman and Robin are in the dark as much as I am this time."

"Maybe," Harold said thoughtfully, running a hand over his mouth.

"You have an idea?" she asked curiously, noticing the deep look on his face.

"Maybe," he said again, hobbling back to the arm chair and taking a seat.

"Ok then, Mr. Cryptic," she mumbled as she began to search more, filing through cabinets and drawers as she moved from room to room.

"Erm…Harold," she said slowly after a minute.

"What is it?" he rose to his feet curiously.

She walked back into the room holding a plastic bag half filled with a powdery white substance.

"Is your girl a dealer in disguise or what?" she bantered, raising an eyebrow as she hung the bag at eye level.

"I should think not," Harold responded, "but I'll admit that I'm as baffled as you are. I think some simple observation should be enough to solve some of the mystery if you return that bag to where you found it. And detective," he said before turning away, "I believe I told you _not_ to call her my girl."

It was some time later, long past nightfall, when Finch found himself in an undercover police car with detective Carter. Well, technically, it was just him at that point. After she found the drugs in Grace's abode he had hit the detective with the idea of a stakeout, even though that was usually Mr. Reese's forte. His stakeout idea had actually come to him long before the discovery of the illegal substance; he had noticed an assortment of items out of place in the house. Whoever put the drugs in there seemed to have no problem coming and going.

"Anything new?" Cater said as she reentered the car, two steaming cups in her hand.

Finch had rigged some bugs inside the house, as well as a security camera that could be checked later on. He was listening in with headphones connected to his laptop, but was only hearing silence.

"Nothing," he said, taking a cup from her, "what's this?"

"Coffee," she said as she took a sip of her own, "it's nearly one am - I figured you could use some caffeine."

"Thank you," he said politely, deciding to take a sip. Grace had switched to tea for him. As the coffee touched his tongue he tried not to cringe.

_Maybe he would just stick to tea._

Suddenly hearing a bang through his headphones, he hastily placed his coffee in a cup holder and began recording audio through his laptop.

"These Russian bastards are too stupid to get rid of," one deep male voice said.

"I know," a man with a thick Italian accent answered, "you would think when we tell them to murder, or be murdered themselves, they would listen."

"Doesn't matter now, Elias made us kill the survivor anyway," the first said.

Finch held back a gasp when he heard the name Elias. Things still weren't adding up, but he and Mr. Reese did have a certain history with the delusional man in the city lockup. Delusional may not have been the correct word, though. Elias was a brilliant man – he was simply misled by his need for revenge and power.

"Why'd he do that anyway? I thought they were supposed to murder the woman?" the Italian questioned.

"They were – for all we know the survivor was lying and she is dead. It doesn't really matter, because the whole point is to get everyone to trust Elias and get our asses out of trouble. If the Russian mob is murdering women for hire, well, that's against the new rules Elias is making. If rumors about some illegal merchandise a certain government official was transporting disappear at a convenient time, well, that would be nice. He's organizing crime, see?"

"I see, I'm not stupid," the Italian man said with a bit of disgruntlement in his voice, "but what if this woman comes back? Aren't we using her as a patsy for these drugs?"

"She isn't coming back, if she isn't dead already she will be by tomorrow with our boys after her. Look here," the deep voice said with a menacing chuckle.

"Ah, that's clever!" the Italian laughed, "now let's hide this somewhere and hit the road. It's past my bedtime."

The two laughed and finished their grossly lighthearted conversation, as well as the process of hiding more drugs as Finch presumed they were. He took the headphones from his ears with frustration, and looked to Carter to answer her unspoken question.

"It has something to do with Elias, but nothing with John and I. She's a random target," he rubbed his thumb and fingers over his eyes, "they're using her as a patsy, a woman with virtually no family or connections, for drugs. They were going to frame the Russians for her death. Two birds with one stone."

"You mean to tell me this is all some sort of horrible coincidence?" Carter said with disbelief.

"It appears so," he said sadly, "but that doesn't mean Grace is out of danger. They're still after her."

"We should go in and check things out before we leave," Carter said as she checked her gun was in her holster, "try and get ahold of John to make sure she's still safe."

Finch nodded and began to dial John's phone. There was no answer, but it didn't concern him too much at the moment. He was so busy staying behind Carter he barely would have had time to talk anyway.

They made their way through the front door much more quietly than Elias' men had, and Carter flicked on some lights. Before either could move far into the house, their eyes were drawn to a typed note tacked to a wall directly in front of them.

_Anyone who cares –_

_I can't take this anymore. My life was worthless, my art was without meaning. Remember me for the good I did, but fail not to fault me for the flaws I couldn't live with. At noon on Wednesday, I drove off the pier near South Street and to my death. If anyone was left to mourn, I would urge them not to; my death isn't worth your troubles. Search for the cause here, it shouldn't be hard to find._

"Well this is problematic," Carter blurted, not sure what else to say, "any luck with John?"

"No," Harold said as he dialed his phone more frantically, "but it just became Wednesday," he gestured to the time on his display.

"So they're going to kill her, and pass it off as a suicide," she shook her head, "what kind of monsters are these people? All of this just to hide some drugs?"

"Who cares what they're hiding?" Harold said angrily, "the main issue here is they're going to kill her!"

"Should I take the note in with me? Maybe I can-"

"No!" Harold cried out as she tried to take it, stopping her hand.

"What do you mean?" she asked, shocked.

"They aren't going to kill her," he said grimly, "but we need the note. I'm afraid we're going to have to kill her."


	8. Chapter 8

**As I begin to draw closer to the end of my story, I would like to once again extend a thank you to everyone who has been tuning in to these chapters! I appreciate the feedback, and I hope that everyone will continue to follow along. I'm thinking this will only run another two chapters or so – but despair not…nothing ever really dies.**

"Fusco!" Reese yelled angrily as he glared at the officer slumped across the ground.

"Huh?" Fusco asked, looking around with confusion as he blinked his eyes slowly.

"What the hell happened to you?" Reese said, not offering assistance.

"The girl..I…uh…" Fusco struggled to remember, rubbing his head, "someone hit me."

"I thought you were a police officer, not an elderly woman," John growled, "it's taken me nearly all night to find you, why did you leave the shelter? And when?"

Reese had left Fusco and Grace at the abandoned building where he had taken refuge during the drunken months after Jessica's death. He knew they would be safe among the homeless, as he was. Well, they would have been safe if Fusco followed his explicit instructions to not move until he got back.

"I think it was around 11," Fusco said slowly, "she was hungry so I took her to get some food. They must've jumped us outside the restaurant."

"Eleven?" John said with disbelief, "it's nearly five am, I've been searching for you for hours and you've been curled up in an alley while Grace has most likely been in the hands of Russian assassins."

"Sorry, boss, I'm not sure what to say – they came out of nowhere."

"Lionel, you idiot, that's why they're paid assassins," John said as his phone began to go off.

Finch had called him at least thirty times, but Reese had been unwilling to answer until he found Grace. Since that prospect was looking a little grim, he decided he had no choice but to talk to his coworker.

"Finch," he said as he answered abruptly, "bit of a problem."

"At noon they're going to have her at the pier near South Street," Finch said without hesitation.

"And how did you come across that information?" Reese said, his bewilderment not sounding in his voice.

"We found the suicide note they left in her house," Finch said plainly, and Reese suspected he was hiding his fear.

"Harold," he said slowly, not entirely sure if he should continue.

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"I won't let you down this time," Reese said simply, assuming Finch understood.

"You didn't before, Mr. Reese," Finch answered, to John's surprise, "I'm sorry."

Reese didn't know how to respond, surprised by the honesty in his partner's voice.

"You can buy him a box of chocolates later," Reese suddenly heard Carter cut in in the background, "let's get to this plan of yours before it's too late."

"Cater is with you?" Reese asked with a chuckle.

"Yes, and I think we have a plan for Grace's rescue," Harold paused, "do you think you can make it look like they killed her, Mr. Reese?"

"Of course," he said assuredly, "but what do I do with her afterwards, seeing as she's actually alive?"

"Take her to the homeless encampment you stayed at, that should be a safe rendezvous point. I'll have things worked out from there – just establish contact with me when you're ready."

"Will do," Reese said as he hung up the phone.

"Come on, Lionel," he said as he gave the officer a slightly twisted smile, "we have work to do."

So, John began the tiresome work of a stakeout with Detective Fusco. Normally he would have gone looking for Grace, but he knew his best option was to wait it out at the pier and hope they were keeping her alive. Waiting it out would have been much easier without the detective's needless banter, but John was a tolerant man – sometimes.

"Look," Fusco said in a surprisingly hushed tone around 11:30, pointing at a lone car pulling into the pier.

John moved his hand to his gun, and watched with a heightened pulse as three men dragged a blindfolded and helpless woman out of the trunk of their car. Even though she was clearly alive and struggling, rage took over his body.

He swung open his car door ferociously, throwing caution to the wind. Loosing a shot, he sent one of the men to the ground, dead. A second man took cover behind the large black Cadillac he had pulled up in, and the third put Grace in front of his body for protection. John scowled at him and moved closer with his gun as she clawed at the arm he had wrapped around her throat.

Even though he seemed entirely focused on the assailant holding Grace, John didn't miss a detail in his surroundings. So, when the second man risked a peek from behind the car to take a shot, John loosed a bullet in his head with barely a glance. The man holding Grace shifted uncomfortably, whipping out a gun and sticking it behind her head as if to enforce his seriousness.

"That was a bad move," John said as he raised his gun, his motion interrupted by a loud bang.

Clutching his side immediately, John felt the bullet rip through his back like a hot knife. He groaned with the pain, blood flowing from the lower left quadrant of his body. He heard another shot erupt behind him, but after feeling no pain he glanced back. Fusco had killed the man who had shot him, and was scanning the perimeter for any more gunmen. John looked up at the burly fellow with his hands around Grace, and noticed he was distracted by Fusco. Having a clear shot at his right knee, John took it, and sent another round into the body before it even hit the ground.

Grace, still bind folded, fell to her knees and covered her head in fear. John made his way to her, ignoring his pain for a moment, and undid her blindfold.

"Grace," he panted, "are you alright?"

"John," she sobbed, falling onto his shoulder and hugging him.

He held her for a moment, but allowed her to rapidly release once her hand sunk low enough to detect the sticky hot substance around his wound.

"You're hurt," she said, horrified.

"That doesn't matter now," he said as he climbed to his feet, opening the door of the Cadillac and digging thought he glove compartment, "You need to listen to me very carefully, Grace."

He returned to her side and his knees with a piece of paper he had found, and pulled a pen out of his suit. Scrawling a message on the paper quickly, he folded it up and placed it in her palm, staining it with blood as he did so.

"You need to keep this folded up until you meet the people you can trust," he said, "there's a detective named Cater, she'll probably be the one getting you. Give it to her. Once she has it, and reads it, make her take you to the funny looking guy with the limp – _my bird_," he finished with a smile.

"Where will I find her?" she asked, terror covering her face.

"Tell Fusco to take you back to the shelter you were at earlier, he won't lose you this time," John assured her, "then turn on this phone and send a text message to the only contact in it," he continued as he handed her the phone he had turned off long ago, not wanting Finch to follow him if things went badly.

"What should the message say?" she asked quietly, probably disturbed by the finality with which John was speaking.

"It doesn't matter, just type 'finished' or something," John said as he struggled to his feet.

"Boss," Fusco said as he jogged over, "you should probably take a seat until you get some help."

"No can do, Lionel," John said sternly, "you're going to have to take Grace back to the homeless encampment. Then, and this is important," John stressed, "you need to come back here and call for backup. Say you stumbled upon a gang fight, shots were fired. The deaths of these men were unrelated to any woman, as a matter of fact – no car was found at the scene."

"Alright," Fusco nodded, understanding for the most part, "but where do you fit in?"

"Don't worry about it," John said, still holding his side, "just go wait in your car."

Fusco obeyed without another word. Despite his shortcomings, the man was dependable when he needed to be.

John climbed into the front seat of the Cadillac, starting it with the keys left in the ignition.

"What are you doing, John?" Grace asked, moving closer to him.

"Grace," he said, "it's going to be hard to get Carter to take you to that man. Tell her it was my final request, alright? And don't forget that letter I gave you."

"Final request?" she asked with fear, "John, what are you doing? And why? You aren't hurt too bad – someone can fix you," she pleaded with him.

"Someone already fixed me, in a manner of speaking, Grace," he said solemnly, "these men were going to make it look like you committed suicide. That's what I'm going to do, to protect you. You're going to die today," John said as casually as ever.

Looking at the expression on her face, he knew she didn't understand easily. Who would?

"You have to understand Grace, I'm already dead. My friend – he's dead too. Sometimes the best way to protect someone, or yourself, is to simply disappear. Cease to exist."

John stared at the wheel of the car, contemplating what he was about to do, when he felt the lips on his cheek.

"Thank you, John," she whispered through her tears, "you've been so good to me, but if you're going to do this I at least deserve an explanation why - why you want to help me so much."

"A little birdy whispered in my ear," he used the phrase with a smile, closing Grace out of the car.

Before she even had time to react, John had sent the car into drive. Pressing his foot to the pedal hard, he closed his eyes and gripped the wheel tightly. There was a moment after all his tires left the pier that he felt he just hung there, as if he was in a slow motion. Then the crash came, though, and the sounds, pressure, and blackness ensued.


	9. Chapter 9

"Finished."

Finch bolted straight up in the driver's seat when he received the text message.

"Carter," he said, giving her a look.

She understood without further direction, and moved out of his passenger's seat. He watched as she walked into the large gray multistory building where hundreds of homeless were gathered. Once inside, and after she found John and Grace, he had instructed her to call him. His throat was dry with anticipation, and his heart was beating at an abnormal speed. Even though he trusted Carter, John, and even Fusco to keep Grace safe, he wasn't going to be satisfied until he saw her to safety himself.

Well, he supposed he would be seeing her to safety from a distance. He had purchased a lofty and expansive apartment, one with a nice view, for her near Central Park, and was counting on Carter to get her there safely. Once she was happily in the new home, he would have John better explain the situation she was in. He wasn't entirely sure how that would go, seeing as the situation was her own death, but something would be worked out. Regardless of how she took it, and all the change that was about to enter her life, he would go on making her as happy as he could. Just like always.

His phone began to buzz, interrupting his quiet fidgeting, and he waited for Carter's voice.

"I think we have a problem," she said quietly when he picked up.

"What do you mean?" he asked urgently.

"She's alone," Carter said, her voice breaking a little, "she said John drove off the pier."

"He…" Finch's voice trailed off as he tried to comprehend what he had heard.

"She gave me a letter he addressed to you," Carter said sadly, "would you like me to read it?"

"Go ahead," Finch said in barely a murmur.

"It reads: Harold- Don't make her wait. You have a chance to be happy. Don't miss it like I did."

"That's all?" he asked, swallowing the emotions threatening his composure.

"That's all the letter said," she continued, "but she said his last request was for me to take her to the funny looking man with a limp, I'm assuming that means you."

Finch grew silent and gripped the wheel in front of him. Bowing his head, an internal battle began to rage. Should he comply with his friend's request?

_Friend._

He refused to believe John had really killed himself, no matter what. Nevertheless, Reese had requested he be reunited with Grace.

He had missed her so much, and the whole ordeal had dragged every last detail out of his memory. She could be his complete antithesis - bouncy, innocent, lighthearted – but she was also his best friend. The quiet and occasionally reclusive artist who enjoyed space as much as he did. The beautiful and talented woman who could melt his heart with a touch on the hand. The only person who had broken down every emotional wall he had built around himself since he was a child.

The one he had been hiding from to protect. The one he had lied to, cheated, caused so much pain. The one who, if she was in her right mind, would never forgive him.

"You still there?" Carter asked.

"I'm here. Take her to the apartment as planned, tell her I'll meet her there."

"Will you really?" Carter said with disbelief.

"I haven't made up my mind yet," Finch answered honestly.

"What should we do about John?" Carter's voice broke a bit during her question.

"I'm certain that when Mr. Reese wants to be found, he will be," Finch said, irrevocability hanging in his voice.

With that comment, he hung up his phone and began to drive. He didn't have a destination set at first, but eventually he found himself parked across the street from Grace's new abode. Not sure how long it would take the detective to get her there, he slumped in his seat but rapidly became antsy. He thought hard about John's letter.

_What if Grace had died? What if she had never known he was alive?_

Making a sudden decision, he got out of the car. He limped to the apartment building as fast as he could, taking deep breaths and trying not to think about what he was doing. An elevator took him to the eleventh floor of the building, and he opened the door to room 548 with a spare key in his suit pocket.

Once the door closed behind him, he began to pace nervously.

_What would he say to her? Was he making a mistake?_

His back began to ache as he tensed his shoulders with anxiety, and he decided to take a seat. He chose an armchair that faced away from the door, showing only his hands and the top of his head from behind. As he was looking out one of many windows at the park below, and all the people going about their business, he heard the door to the apartment open.

"This is it," he heard Carter say, "and…well, I believe that's the man you're looking for. I'll leave you to your business," she finished hastily before he heard the door close again.

"Whoever you are," he heard Grace say as she walked away from the door, "I want to know why you sent John to save me. I want to know why he killed himself for me."

Anger was already burning on her words, and he cringed at the prospect of what was to come.

"I don't believe John's dead," he muttered at first, then rose to his feet to face her.

"Hello, Grace," he finished simply.

Mouth agape, she stumbled to the chair closest to her. Pallor had suddenly dropped across her face, and wide confused eyes pierced his guilty soul. As her hands uncomfortably gripped the arm rests on the chair, he limped a bit closer, waiting for her to say something.

"Harold?" she finally choked out softly.

"Yes," he said, letting his eyes wander to the ground, "I'm sorry…I…I realize this isn't the best way to present myself to you."

"Present yourself?" she said, flabbergasted, "I've thought for two miserable years you've been dead, and you're worried about presentation?"

"I just mean I didn't want to startle you," he said, struggling for words.

"Startle," she snorted, her face molding from surprise to irritation, "I'm not the least bit startled. I'll admit I've blown my fair share of relationships over the years, but no one has ever pretended to be dead."

"I faked my own death only to protect you," Harold said with a pleading tone, "I work with…sensitive material. I just wanted you to live a normal life, and be happy," he insisted as he moved closer.

"Happy," she laughed, a sad and haunting laugh, "what is happy, Harold?"

"I didn't want to drag you into the things John and I do-"

"Did. He drove off that pier because you asked him to protect me, Harold. Where were you? _Hiding_?" she sneered as she rose to her feet.

"John is my friend, but I know he didn't do that for me," Harold said wretchedly, "he cared about you."

"At least someone did," she said, tears beginning to run from her eyes.

"I was there the whole time," Harold said, his voice rising with desperation, "just because I couldn't let you see me didn't mean I didn't care. It was the hardest thing I've ever done," he said as his eyes met hers briefly, then skirted away.

"You said you did this to make me happy, Harold," she moved close as she spoke, so he could feel her breath on his face.

Looking into her eyes, he answered, "of course."

"I was happy when you asked if I wanted ice cream in that park, Harold," she said, balling some of his suit up in her fist, "I was happy when you asked me to marry you. I was happy when you watched me paint, and when we talked about nothing," she was beating the hand into his chest with anger now, shaking his torso a little, "I was happy when I had someone to hold me for no reason," she tried to continue, but her voice broke. She let her hand fall from his chest and to her side as she began to sob with convulsions.

Feeling tears running down his usually stoic face, Harold wrapped his arms around her gently. As her head collapsed onto his shoulder, her face pressing into his neck, he tightened his grip. Pressing his face into her hair, he inhaled and ran his hands along her back. He was shaking from the feeling it gave him; it seemed like an eternity since he had her with him like this. She wrapped her own arms underneath his and around his back as she regained some composure, her sobs quieting somewhat.

"I was always happiest when I was with you," she said quietly in his ear.

"I wasn't happy until I was with you," he answered, feeling her grip tighten.

"Harold," she whispered as if she was testing the name on her lips, "I still hate your tea."

Letting a laugh escape his lips, he pulled away to look into her eyes, running his palm across her cheek. His usual awkwardness that stemmed from being antisocial was gone. He was comfortable for the first time in years.

Tilting her face upward, she kissed his lips softly, then his cheek, before embracing him again. He let his fingers play through her hair, and closed his eyes. He had four years and a few minutes of happiness.

"Why do you limp, Harold?" she asked him curiously with a sniffle, her eyes beginning to dry as they regained their signature shine.

"There really was an accident," he answered, "I have bone grafts and pins in my neck and back."

"Oh," she said sadly, running a few of her fingers gently across the base of his neck, sending chills down his spine, "does it hurt badly?"

"Not now," he said with a grin.

She smiled back a little, wrapping a hand around his.

"Do you really think John is alright?"

"I hope so," Finch said with a sigh.

"Me too," she said sensitively.

"A lot of things are going to change now," Harold said rather ominously after a moment.

"I know," she answered with a solemn understanding.

"I can see you more often than every two years now, can't I?" she continued as she sat back down, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Instead of answering, he simply looked at her. Even after all she had been through, innocence still flickered in her pretty eyes. Her lips curved up in a natural smile even when her face was relaxed, and her hair fell perfectly around her head.

"I love you so much," he said plainly.

"I know," she answered with a smile.


	10. Chapter 10

The man sat in an armchair, twirling a cane innocently enough.

It wasn't his, but he had decided he quite liked it. Or, at least he liked flipping it around with his hand. It was black with a ring of silver around the top – simple yet elegant. His leg had been throbbing constantly for about a week, and he attempted to stretch it out as he sat.

Rolling his shoulders back with discomfort, he stared out the window in front of him. The view was familiar, and somewhat comforting. Couples went along hand in hand, arm in arm, stride for stride. Dogs pranced back and forth, left and right, up then down. Trees swayed swiftly and slowly, dramatically and subtly, bending then stiffening.

He rarely took time to appreciate the way the outside operated, the peaceful way everything often went about its average business. Among the chaos of the world the whole shebang was in working order, even the cars on the street fighting for parking. Out there was a puzzle trying to fit together. A giant number.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he let them flutter back open almost instantly. Suddenly the glass in front of him was shattering, letting in not air but water. It was rushing across his face first, then consuming the rest of his body. Soft bubbles and sharp shards mixed at once, sky and earth and water and wind all colliding in one horrible mess.

Blinking, he brought himself back to reality. Running one of his hands over an arm rest, he felt the tugs and pricks on his scabbing flesh. Holding his hand up to his face and studying it curiously, he traced the cuts that ran across it. Many more covered his arms, and even his face. Lowering the arm, he felt a tension in his shoulder.

There were fingers there, fingers that dug in. They were the type of fingers that grabbed with a purpose and refused to let go until they accomplished their mission – for that he was grateful. Bones sliding and popping rang through his ears as the memory of knocking the shoulder back into socket crossed his mind. A pang ran through the injury as if just knowing it happened was enough to make his nerves register pain.

He didn't succumb to pain, though. He never would. It was one of the reasons he always had the utmost confidence in his own ability to handle situations. Until his body quit on its own, he wouldn't go down. Wouldn't give up.

There were simply too many important aspects in life for him to give up. Once there hadn't been. He had been so far gone there wasn't much of anything. Now there was more. There were people, places, faces. That face that went with the fingers.

Even though he hadn't been in his right mind, he distinctly remembered the eyes. Dark and deep, caring and understanding, commanding and forceful. A lot could be learned just by looking into someone's eyes. He wondered what had been seen in his.

He knew that many questions were going to be asked soon. He would answer them, in good time. There were some things he couldn't answer himself, though. Like why those eyes had searched him out. Why that hand hadn't let go. Why he was so baffled by it all.

Hearing a door swing open behind him, followed by laughter, he let a small smile slip across his face. Running a hand across the stubble accumulating on his face, he took a deep breath. What would their eyes say?

Rising to his feet stiffly, he turned with the cane in his hand. As he tossed it to the man who had entered the room, their eyes met.

His were happy. Actually happy, for once. There was relief in them, but no surprise. It was more like they were asking what had taken him so long.

If his were happy, hers were elated. Tears even pooled in them a little when his piercing blue eyes met hers. Astonishment flowered in them, as well as gratitude. No eloquently worded thank you could have topped what he read there.

"Hello, Mr. Reese," Harold said with a shadow of a smile, propping his cane against a wall.

"Hello, Harold," John said as he folded his arms across his chest, and directed his gaze back at Grace, giving her a wry smile.

"Welcome to the afterlife."

**Well, that's it folks! I would like to extend a thank you to all who have followed along, and any who may read in the future! I look forward to publishing more stories, and plan to do so as frequently as possible. Even though this story is ending, I really can't promise it's over. Actually, I'm almost sure it isn't. Many questions have gone unanswered…for now. Should I begin a sequel, I will happily notify all current followers in the form of an epilogue on this story. Until next time, stay safe Irrelevants!**


	11. Epilogue

Peter Alger moved down the street slowly, deliberately.

People stared, but he didn't really mind. Sometimes he found it quite amusing, actually. Narrowing his eyes and huffing a bit, he dragged his bum leg along like a piece of deadwood.

His back was hunched and his shoulders were uneven because of his awkward gait. His face was scarred and his mouth didn't sit quite straight on his face. His nose was bumpy and his neck constantly had a crook in it. His black hair was prematurely gray and his blue eyes were constantly bloodshot.

His mind was still sharp as hell.

When he arrived at a crosswalk he ignored the concerned looks coming from people all around him. Well, perhaps it wasn't genuine concern. The people of New York, as a whole, were probably more worried that if he died it might hinder their travel plans. Apparently the public was under the impression a cripple couldn't get across the street without getting pancaked. Sometimes he truly wished he would get flattened, but most drivers seemed to avoid running down the handicapped.

Walking into the street when a flashing icon told him he could, he did his best to take steps so that each time his steady foot hit the ground it made contact with a white strip. Some of the paint had worn off of the ground because of traffic. All of it was oil stained and dirty. That was the story of New York, though.

Clearing his throat in the stale air, he didn't pay any attention to the camera flashing on the street corner he laboriously shambled onto.

It paid attention to him, though.

**Here it is, a short (and for now seemingly "irrelevant") lead in to the sequel! Please keep an eye out for _Slow_ - the continuation of this story!**


End file.
